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Legacy was recently awarded Honorable Mention in the Southern California Book Festival!
In 2041, the choice is yours.
San Francisco is deserted, the Bay Bridge bombed, and the BART subway trains grounded. The Guardians, members of an elite and mysterious government-appointed military police force, are maintaining order at all costs—thanks to emotion-altering drugs like Emovere that suppress fear and anxiety. Lex Knightley, daughter of a prominent forensic psychiatrist, risks entering the devastated city to partner with the Resistance, a group of rebels intent upon exposing the dangers of Emovere. Lex discovers an ally in Quin McAllister, a magnetic Guardian Force recruit with a haunting past that binds them together. As she uncovers the secrets of the Guardian Force and confronts the truth about her family, Lex begins to realize that even those closest to her are not quite who they seem.
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From Legacy.....
The first time I saw Quin, I was on the edge of sleep, thinking of my mother. She would read to me every night, then run her fingers through my hair until I fell asleep. That world, the world containing my mother, had died so long ago—was it really only twenty days?—that sometimes I believed it had happened to someone else, not me. When I thought of my old life, I imagined it far above me, like a child’s lost balloon. At first there was the hope of grabbing it, recovering it, bringing it safely back to the clutches of my hand. Then it was out of reach, and I could only watch it and wonder where it would go. Finally, the tiny dot of it disappeared, and I realized it was never mine to begin with.
I sat upright, nearly hitting my head on the desk—a graffitied table hidden in the library’s stacks—where I slept. At first, I thought it was a dream. How long had I been sleeping? A pinprick of light darted across the library floor. I held my breath.
In the twenty days, now twenty-one, that I had been in the library, a small brown bird fluttering near the doorway had been the only sign of life. I heard muffled footsteps and a click-click-click sound, like nails tapping on glass.
Cursing myself for getting too comfortable, I fumbled for the backpack my mother had given to me, rifling hurriedly through its contents—a few remaining cans of food and granola bars, a flashlight, a map of the city, a wad of money that had so far been useless, a change of clothing, and toothpaste—until I found it . . . the gun. When I slept, I usually kept it close to me, but tonight, of all nights, I had forgotten.
I positioned myself behind the metal stacks, concealing the gun close to my side. It was heavy and cold. My mother had taught me to use it, but firing a weapon seemed like something that someone else would do, some other version of me. Still, I told myself that I was prepared to. I had to be.
The first time I saw Quin, I was on the edge of sleep, thinking of my mother. She would read to me every night, then run her fingers through my hair until I fell asleep. That world, the world containing my mother, had died so long ago—was it really only twenty days?—that sometimes I believed it had happened to someone else, not me. When I thought of my old life, I imagined it far above me, like a child’s lost balloon. At first there was the hope of grabbing it, recovering it, bringing it safely back to the clutches of my hand. Then it was out of reach, and I could only watch it and wonder where it would go. Finally, the tiny dot of it disappeared, and I realized it was never mine to begin with.
I sat upright, nearly hitting my head on the desk—a graffitied table hidden in the library’s stacks—where I slept. At first, I thought it was a dream. How long had I been sleeping? A pinprick of light darted across the library floor. I held my breath.
In the twenty days, now twenty-one, that I had been in the library, a small brown bird fluttering near the doorway had been the only sign of life. I heard muffled footsteps and a click-click-click sound, like nails tapping on glass.
Cursing myself for getting too comfortable, I fumbled for the backpack my mother had given to me, rifling hurriedly through its contents—a few remaining cans of food and granola bars, a flashlight, a map of the city, a wad of money that had so far been useless, a change of clothing, and toothpaste—until I found it . . . the gun. When I slept, I usually kept it close to me, but tonight, of all nights, I had forgotten.
I positioned myself behind the metal stacks, concealing the gun close to my side. It was heavy and cold. My mother had taught me to use it, but firing a weapon seemed like something that someone else would do, some other version of me. Still, I told myself that I was prepared to. I had to be.
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